


The House

by readtolive



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Architect Stiles Stilinski, Blow Jobs, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, POV Alternating, Sex, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-29 21:21:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15081983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readtolive/pseuds/readtolive
Summary: Derek Hale needed a home. Stiles Stilinski gave it to him."He knew it would end badly, but at this moment, even this disturbed and more than slightly hurt, he couldn't bring himself to regret it. Any of it. Because the time he had had with Derek was the best time of Stiles' life, in every possible way. He had been so happy. It was so devastating to him that Derek clearly hadn't."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know absolutely nothing about architecture, so don't take offense, please, at any of my possible mistakes.  
>  Unbetaed.

*******  

Stiles was standing near the long sliding door on the southwest wall, which was closed this time of the year, what with bitey February forest air leaving icy patterns on the outside glass. A middle-aged couple, dressed formally like they were attending a business dinner or a wedding party and not searching to buy a house in the middle of nowhere, roamed aimlessly through the huge living room.

“Why on earth would anyone put this huge glass wall towards the forest? It doesn't make any sense in this climate,“ the woman wanted to know. Stiles was glad that that was what she went with. Her comment was so expected. So typical. He could deal with the expected. He knew from it, though, from that single first question, that she was not a good buyer for the house. 

“Are you cold?“ Stiles bit his lip instantly, regretting his choice of words as soon as they left his mouth. He should probably try to be nicer if he wanted to sell. “The glass is double-glazed, with new tech protection against elements. And the heating system is topnotch.“

 _The real owner wanted it this way_ , he didn't say. _He wanted to see the forest, to live with it, not stare at it through a small square. He wanted to erase the division line between outside and inside._

“Historically, people did tend to shield themselves from the outside. Even today, they use the climate as an excuse. But look,“ Stiles said, sliding the door all the way down its tracks. “When you push the massive sliding door open, you don't know whether you're inside or outside. You're just in a beautiful environment.“

All three of them looked at the house from the outside. A two-story open living and dining area nestled into the site. Placed to the rear and side of the house, two wooden-clad towers created private areas for bedrooms and bathrooms. The entire building was enclosed by a large glass roof, supported by steel and timber struts, mimicking the branches of the surrounding trees.

“The view is spectacular, indeed.“ The woman touched the wall, letting her fingers flutter against the wooden cladding. “This is a rather interesting solution. What is it?“

Stiles wiped his palm against the nearest tree. “The texture of the bark, set against the textures of the cladding, gives the feeling of the outside flowing freely into the inside, and vice versa. The cladding is like the bark, in that it has real depth -- it's got bits of timber in three different layers. Often contemporary buildings are really flat, but this feels textured, layered and rich.“

_He didn't want a typical suburban house._

“We respected the environment in every possible way. Every material that you see is from nature, except glass. Wood, stone, marble, concrete... We didn't cut or replant a single tree during construction. We built the house in between them. But the glass is there for a reason, for the light, and for transparency. I love the way you can see through the building, to the canopy on the other side. This house just snuggles into the trees. Structural trees support the roof, so when it goes up into the sky, you're not looking at huge bits of structure, you're looking at delicate limbs. The glass roof and walls make the house seem almost transparent, allowing the surrounding forest to be viewed from every direction. We've used different lengths and sizes, so nothing acts as a block for your eye because it has depth and your eye keeps traveling, a little bit like a canopy. And the building gets more delicate as it goes up, just like trees, and it completely dematerializes against the sky, which is lovely. So, it feels like we're immersed in canopy all the time.“

The man looked at Stiles, clearly impressed. “You are a passionate young fellow, aren't you?“

Stiles smiled, not too shyly. “I just love architecture. I live it and breathe it, to be honest.“

The couple seemed to exhale simultaneously in wonder. “That's fantastic. Is it a hobby of yours, if you don't mind my asking?“, the man spoke.

“Oh, no. I have a company, back in Beacon Hills. Styletec. It's... definitely not a hobby.“

“Well, it's a pleasure to have you here, then,“ the man said. “How come you're the one showing us the house? It is a bit unorthodox.“

Unorthodox. Good word choice. _I am here because no one else wanted to do it. I am here because I want to help him sell it. Because it's what's best for both of us._ “I kind of offered myself. It's my creation, and only the owner knows everything about it, the story behind each decision, the secret behind each choice... and he is, um, he is not here right now, and I am the second best thing. I just didn't want some real estate agent to say something... incorrect.“ Stiles tried to be as coherent as possible, but whenever the conservation strayed away from architecture, his coherency level took a nosedive. He was doing a lousy job and like clockwork, he could feel a headache creeping up on him. “It's a—it's a special house. Extraordinary. Its design is a story in itself, and it lives with nature, not against it. It embraces history, not erases it... “

“I understood the part about nature, but what is that about history?“

Stiles swallowed. He wasn't nervous, he wasn't. He just didn't know these people. “For that, we should move to the study.“ He didn't want to explain this part, but he had to. Before, when he had made certain decisions, he had hoped he didn't have to explain them more than once. And he didn't. Derek had understood him, accepting his ideas almost gratefully, with a hesitant smile and trepidation in his eyes that just wouldn't go away. But that was... before.

  *******

 “He is a brilliant young architect, Derek. Why don't you just meet him, talk with him, and then decide,“ Erica' patience was melting faster than ice cream in August. They were friends, but they both had their limits.

“I don't need an architect to rebuild my own house,“ Derek did _not_ grind his teeth, even though he wanted to. “I don't want to rebuild it, period.“

Erica looked heavenwards in what was clearly a long-lasting frustration. “I really, really don't want to rehash this subject for the millionth time, Derek. You don't want to rent a place, you don't want to tear down your old house, you don't want to sell your property, _you don't have where to live._ Let's be reasonable adults here. Hire a goddamn expert, hear what he has to say. Jesus. It's like pulling teeth with you.“

No, Derek did not want an _expert_ , who was probably some conceited asshole with a college degree and no clue whatsoever about what Derek wanted or needed. Not that Derek himself knew what he wanted or needed, but his point still remained.

Erica sighed, softening up. “Look... you know you can't crash at our place forever... we love you, we all do. But... you need your own place. Can't you see that? You need a home.“

Derek closed his eyes. A home. If only homes could be bought or built, or designed by a professional architect. “What's his name?“

Erica fumbled across her office desk, suddenly hopeful, trying to grab the visit card without breaking one of her nails. “The company is called Styletec, you know the one down by the post office on the Maple? And the guy's name is, is... his name is... ha, found it—Stiles Stilinski, PhD, in both architecture and architectural engineering.“

Derek snorted. “What kind of a name is that?“

Erica squinted at him. “Really? What's wrong with you? His name, Derek? Is that what you're going with this time? I'm booking you an appointment with him, and you are going, and you're going to write down what you want, because lord knows you can't talk. Here's the paper, here's the pen, come on. Write it all down for Stilinski, and the good man is going to make all your boo-boo go away.“

“Fuck you, Erica.“

Erica grinned.

Derek took the paper and the pen.

  *******

 Stiles and the couple went into the study. He could pinpoint the exact moment when the book collection alone took their breath away. “It's mostly all inherited, from the owner's... Mr. Hale's family. They had a huge library, but not everything was saved. Some of it was lost in the fire.“

“The fire, Mr. Stilinski?“

Stiles guided them gently towards a large bay window. There, behind a few rows of tall trees, enveloped in a thin misty veil, a blurry dark frame arose like a vision, and the shapes of a burnt down husk of a house stood out against the foggy backdrop, unreal and mysterious like an illustration in a book.

“Oh!“ the woman grabbed her husband's arm. “Would you look at that, Piers! Look at that! What is it, Mr. Stilinski?“

Stiles should have prepared better for this showing, he realized that. What to say now? Should he lie? Tell the truth? He distinctly remembered Derek's words. He remembered all of them, written in haste, frantic, in uneven rows on a crumpled  little note. _I want a new house. But I want the old one, too. I can't live in it, though. It's burnt... it's ruined. But I can't tear it down. I need my home. My own home, on my family's land, where they were born, where they died. I go there, and I look at our house... but I can't imagine living in it. I also can't imagine demolishing it and building something foreign on its ruins. What do I do. What do I DO._

“Please, call me Stiles. It's Mr. Hale's old house. He didn't want to get rid of it.“

The woman's excitement was making Stiles feel uncomfortable. She wasn't vulgar or rude, but she was so frivolous and too loud. “Oh, Piers, how interesting! It's like from that story, Edgar Allan Poe, what was the title? The scary one. The Fall of the House of Ash, or was it Asher, Usher, I can't remember. It doesn't matter, but this is so, so... medieval, isn't it Piers. Scary. Oh, imagine what our guests would think, they would be most entertained. I love it! How very interesting. We could have excellent dinner parties here, very _period_. We can take the books elsewhere, to have more space, can't we, Piers?“

Stiles had to swallow down bile. Her amusement was nauseating. _I can't lose it, Stiles. It's me, the house is me, and when I look at it, I see my family, their lives, their happiness... their pain, their deaths. What do I do? 'Then you don't lose it, Derek', Stiles told him then, a little bit in shock from the emotional intensity of the man before him. 'We'll build your new house next to it, and you'll be able to look at it when you want, and not look at it when you don't want to... It'll live among the trees, just like you; your past and your present and your future, all in one place, where you're all supposed to be.'_

“It's Mr. Hales' old house,“ Stiles repeated idiotically, but he didn't feel like sharing anything more. He thought it would be better to let the woman's fantasies run wild. Whatever her brain chose to conjure up was definitely much better than the real life story.

“Amazing space. Who was the carpenter?“, the man, who kept steadfastly ignoring his wife, asked; his hand almost touched the gorgeous carvings on the shelves, but he gave up less than a centimeter away. _This man was no idiot_ , Stiles smiled. “Mr. Hale. Derek. I didn't even know he knew how to carve. Really superb woodwork. Wait till you see the kitchen, it's a work of art.“

Stiles took the couple through the house, which defied convention in so many ways. There were very few doors – the house wasn't divided into rooms in a traditional sense. The kitchen did have a classic island in the middle though, but it was a huge one, with the cooker and the sink built in. “He didn't want to to look at the wall while he used the kitchen, with his back turned to everything.“

“Is there a single square or rectangular room in the house, Mr. Stilinski?“

Stiles looked through the kitchen windows at the tree trunks only a few inches away from them. They had to carefully measure the girth of every tree and calculate the distances so that the strong winds wouldn't push them too hard against the house and damage it. _Don't cut a single tree. Build the house between them. I don't care how you'll do it. And don't damage the roots! They go as wide as the canopy._ Stiles had to implant thin, titanium pins in between the roots and lay the foundation on them. He used every technique available, everything he knew and learned, to give Derek Hale what he wanted.

“No.“

  *******

 Derek stood in the middle of an office in Styletec, staring at the strange guy behind the desk in complete silence, without trying to introduce himself or start any kind of conversation. Months later, Stiles would get used to Derek's laconic nature, accepting it easily and mockingly, goading Derek into conversations he would never have dreamed of having before. But at that moment, when they were complete strangers to each other, Derek was pushed even further into his silent mode by his surprise at the man's appearance.

He was much younger than Derek expected, especially for someone with so much formal education and running his own company. He looked like a kid, not a day older than twenty-two, twenty-three, even though it was clear by his broad shoulders and muscular forearms that he wasn't. Derek could see them because his shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. The man was obviously one of those types blessed, or cursed, depending on one's perception, with perpetual boyish looks, too delicate looking to be a successful businessman. Later, Derek would find out what a force of nature Stiles was, his masculinity and strength emanating from his intelligent, sonorous speech.

His lips were full and curvy, moist and red, either from constant biting or from kissing – Derek guessed that both scenarios were possible. He had big eyes, large and conveniently framed with a thick line of long eyelashes. He was attractive, Derek concluded in the end, quite indifferently.

The man cleared his throat and stretched his arm towards Derek for a handshake. “You must be Mr. Hale. Pleased to meet you. I'm Stiles.“

Derek shook his hand and let the usual awkwardness ensue. There was a reason Derek hated meeting people.

“Have a seat, please.“ Stiles had a small smile on his lips, seemingly unperturbed by Derek's apparent lack of social skills, like someone had already told him about Derek. Like he had been warned. Derek knew the extent his friends went to oil up his social interactions. He could hear Erica's voice in his head. _Don't mind him, he's a mountain man. Hot as the sun, but mute. Just do your thing, darling._

Derek felt with his fingers the piece of paper in his pocket. He took it out, crumpled and already not white, from whichever mysterious dirt lined up the insides of Derek's pockets, and offered it to Stiles. “That's what I want.“

Stiles' small smile disappeared. It took him less than a minute to read it. Derek expected questions, and was already starting to feel the sweat coming out on the back of his neck.

“All right, Mr. Hale. I'll draw up the brief and call you when I'm finished. Is the property yours?“

“Yes.“

“The old house, yes? And how much of the Preserve?“

“All of it.“

Stiles' long fingers flattened the paper gently against his desk in an almost caressing motion. “Do you have any other requests... apart from these concerning your old house?“

“Yes. I don't want any trees cut or damaged. I... it doesn't have to be a big house. And, the light. I want as much as possible light. And, nothing... cute.“

Stiles laughed out loud at this. He had the most interesting face when he laughed, Derek thought; a little elvish, like a forest spirit, or a pan, Derek didn't know. He looked at him, intrigued, and more than a little relieved that the young man somehow seemed to sense the invisible boundaries surrounding Derek and didn't push at them.

Stiles stood up and walked around his desk, offering his hand to Derek once again. Derek didn't know where to look first, at his eyes, arms, hands, or the man's clearly slender but athletic body.

Derek stood up, too, and bumped back against his own chair when the unique smell wafting from the man reached his nose.

“Is –is that all?“, Derek stuttered, confused and unable to think of anything else to say.

“That's all. I'll give you a call when the first brief is finished. You'll tell me what you think, what you approve or disapprove of, and we'll go from there.“

There was that smile again. And the man had the softest hands.

  *******

 “I understand that you have to be discreet, Mr. Stilinski, but, if you don't mind my asking, why is he selling this house at all? It sounds like his dream house.“

It _was_ Derek's dream house. Or had been. He fell in love with it from the first brief, Stiles could tell. He didn't want to change any of Stiles' ideas, he went with every single one of them – including leaving the old house just be. Once he saw Stiles' brief, every initial trepidation and hesitation on Derek's part had vanished like it had never been there in the first place, replaced by creative frenzy and almost irritating impatience to finish the house as soon as possible. They had built it together, from scratch, bringing every insane idea to life through sheer will power and dedication to their ideas' brilliance.

“I'm not sure. He just went away, I think. Somewhere... foreign. Brazil, maybe. His lawyer asked me to help sell the house. He, Mr. Hale, doesn't want it anymore.“

"He doesn't want it?"

"No."

It was Stiles' fault, really. It took one sentence from him, one single sentence, carelessly and thoughtlessly murmured, when they were both lying together in the huge bed in Derek's bedroom, still sleepy and relaxed, looking up at the green canopies above them, without a single worry in this world. That was why Stiles had said it, really – it was this perfect moment when all life forces seemed aligned, the person you were with, the place, time, universe – “I could really live here,“ Stiles had said then. What a silly thing to say. And it was more about the house, really, not that much about Derek himself, or whatever it was that they had, if that was the part that scared Derek off.

They had been so stupid, Stiles in particular – there was no other logical explanation for it. It had felt so easy to dream of love in this magical place, with the magical man next to him. Stiles had fallen in love with Derek before they even got to laying the roof, quite irresponsibly, and he would never have done anything about it if he hadn't been so utterly horny at the same time, having lusted after Derek's firm body for months.

“We're in luck, then,“ the woman grinned enthusiastically. “What a strange man. To invest so much time and effort, so much money, and then just leave. Puff! But, I suppose it isn't any of our business. Piers? I want this house, you hear? I want it.“

Her husband remained quiet, once again. What a weird couple.There was something in his silence that eased Stiles' discomfort, because he clearly didn't want to sell the house. He _hated_ the very idea of it with every atom of his body because it was _Derek's_ house, made for him and not anyone else – and in the few months they had spent in it together, fucking every day, playing the happy couple, eating, drinking, sleeping, it had grown to be what Derek had wanted in the first place – it had become Derek's home.

  *******

 “He kissed me,“ Derek blurted one day, while sitting on Erica's living room sofa, only a few days after the kissing incident took place.

Both Boyd and Erica's eyebrows shot up in surprise, not because of the kiss, but because that was the first time Derek had shared something even remotely related to his romantic life. He _never_ spoke about it.

“On the mouth,“ Derek clarified, like there was any other kind of kissing between two adult males who weren't friends, or related, that one would deem worth mentioning. But Boyd and Erica were used to Derek's awkwardness.

“Hmmm,“ Erica pursed her lips. “I didn't even know he wasn't straight. Did you have sex?“

Derek shook his head. “No, no, we didn't even kiss, I mean, I didn't kiss him back.“

“Oh. You don't like him then. Too bad,“ Erica sighed, curling around Boyd. “It's been too long for you, Derek. Plus, he is such a cutiepie. And so brilliant.“

“I do like him. I think I really, really like him. I don't know why I didn't kiss him back.“

They continued watching TV for a while in silence, sipping on their beer, and they probably would never say anything related to the topic again if Derek didn't keep releasing frustrated little sighs every once in a while. Erica ignored him because she was getting really tired of trying to make Derek a functioning human being, but Boyd took a long sip from his bottle and startled both Erica and Derek from their thoughts by speaking up, quite out of character. “You can kiss him back tomorrow, you know. Or in a few days. If he likes you, he won't mind that you didn't kiss him back immediately. He will be glad you're kissing him now.“

“Aw, baby, that was so sweet,“ Erica cooed, showering her man's big, bald head with kisses. But a blink later, her bitch face was back on, honing in on Derek like a missile. Derek sank deeper into the cushions from the force of it. “The contractors for the roof are coming in tomorrow. I don't care what you do with Stiles. If we need to talk you into just kissing him, it's not worth it. No one deserves that little investment. Live as a hermit, see if I care.“

  *******

 “Would you like to see the rest of the house before you decide?“ Stiles asked, but his heart wasn't in it. He lingered in the kitchen some more, without even trying to keep the flashbacks flooding his mind.

That was where they had kissed for the first time, before the cabinets were even put in place, and other than several rolls of clear plastic sheets, there was nothing on the smooth concrete floor. Stiles had made the first move, if you considered the move to be something literal, something physical, but it was actually Derek who had spent the previous few months of their working together looking at Stiles with burning eyes, standing too close to him, letting the silences between them become increasingly less awkward, unable to hide his attraction – unlike Stiles. Stiles was pretty experienced in that department. Up to that point, he was positively certain that Derek had had no clue about his own feelings.

So, yes, Stiles didn't mind being held responsible for making the first move, because the truth, like beauty, was in the eye of the beholder. Or something like that.

And it hadn't even been a proper kiss, Stiles tried to remember. He pressed his closed lips against Derek's, a little too hard because he could feel Derek's teeth pressing back against him through the other side of his mouth, and even though Stiles wondered what would happen if he pushed his tongue out and through Derek's lips and part them like an Oreo cookie, he didn't do that. He pecked the man a few times, each time less aggressively, not because he was feeling less confident about Derek's want for him -- for Derek did want him back, Stiles knew. It was just that Stiles had learned that thing about Derek, how particular he was about the things he wanted – mostly, how his mind couldn't, and didn't, make the logical connection between wanting and having.

So, Stiles didn't even get offended, when Derek, without ever trying to return any of Stiles' clumsy pecks, got all serious and breathy, and whispered in Stiles' general direction, “What do you want from me?“

How could anyone get mad or offended by this spectacular display of human disfunctionality was beyond Stiles. Stiles accepted Derek's rejection with complete calm. So, he wouldn't get to jump Derek's hot bones in the sack, so what. It was a bad idea anyway, what with Stiles having million projects lined up, and Derek, well, being Derek. Stiles was too busy to dedicate himself to anything that demanded too much work, emotionally speaking. Not worth it was practically a writing on the wall when Derek was concerned.

And that was why Stiles, after stifling a brief pang of regret somewhere deep in his stomach, licked his lips a little, because some of Derek's scent seemed to have transferred there during their one-sided exchange, and calmly said, “Don't forget to clean up the floor before we bring in the cabinets.“

He also managed to smile a little at Derek's confusion. He had no idea what Derek expected; that he would be more persistent, that he would beg? That was not going to happen. Stiles didn't want the man to feel bad, he really didn't, but his friendly little smile didn't seem to succeed in wiping Derek's confusion away.

  *******

 “He's gone,“ Erica breathed into Stiles' ear, probably on the verge of tears – Stiles didn't have the strength to figure it out because his own body went numb at her words.

“Gone? Where?“

“I don't know, I don't know.“ Yes, she was definitely crying.

Stiles didn't say anything. What to say? _Did he leave a message? Was he coming back? Did this mean he was breaking up with Stiles?_ Stupid, silly questions. Stiles could never understand people who tortured themselves with these bits of useless knowledge when their partners were simply, factually gone. Derek was gone. He wasn't there. If he had wanted to say something to Stiles, if there had been anything that Derek wanted Stiles to know, he would have said it.

“Alright. Thanks for letting me know.“

“Wait, don't hang up. He wants to sell the house.“

Oh, boy. _Oh, boy, oh, boy, oh, boy._ The fucking pain, the hurt, was almost suffocating for those few seconds. Stiles did not sign up for this. But, this move was so radical, so unexpected, that in a matter of minutes, all that was left in Stiles' mind was genuine wonderment. He had no idea what was going on, nor could he link Derek's obvious discomfort with committing to any relationship he and Stiles might have had to the fact that he wanted to get rid of the house. Was Stiles the problem? He wouldn't step inside of it if that was what Derek wanted.

“If he's selling it because of me, he doesn't have to. You tell him that, if you have a way to contact him.“

“I don't, he just left this stupid note.“

“ _A note_. I gotta go, Erica. I'm really sorry about everything. I can't talk right now. Thanks for calling.“ Stiles ended the call and buried his face in his hands. He should be mad at himself for not listening to his instincts, because each and every one of them had been screaming at him in warning against having anything with Derek. He knew it would end badly, but at this moment, even this disturbed and more than slightly hurt, he couldn't bring himself to regret it. Any of it. Because the time he had had with Derek had been  the best time of Stiles' life, in every possible way. Stiles had been so happy. It was so devastating to him that Derek clearly hadn't.

  *******


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notice that the rating has gone up with this chapter. Thank you.

*******

“There was a petal storm last night.“

“Yeah?“

“I thought I was dreaming.“

“Where was I?“

“I don't know. In your study, perhaps. I took a shower, and I didn't want to change the sheets, so I just tossed everything on the floor. I remember that my towel fell, I was naked and then I saw them. They floated in the air as long as the snowflakes, but more fluttery.“

Derek's hand traveled down Stiles' back, innocent, uninterrupted, until it reached the elastic band of his briefs, and then it followed the line of it across the two divots above Stiles' ass, back and forth, back and forth.

“Am I supposed to take them off?“, Stiles murmured, his face squished against the pillows, and only slightly aroused.

Derek's touch against his skin was never exclusively sexual to him; it was comfort and happiness, pleasure, and a cure, for pain, solitude, sadness... And at this point, a necessity. Stiles was terrified of admitting it to anyone, even himself. What a scary thought, knowing that you need so much something that you could easily lose.

“If you want.“ Derek brushed his lips against the downy hair at the small of Stiles' back. “Do you want to? We don't have to do anything.“

“Derek... I cannot _not_ do anything with you,“ Stiles said, even though his inside was still pleasantly throbbing from their activities less than an hour ago. “Don't you know it? Even when my dick is soft, I want you inside me.“

Derek climbed up the bed and turned him around then, so warm and unbelievably soft. There was this strange, almost familial comfort that Stiles took in him, and which, weirdly enough, didn't diminish his desire towards the man; if anything, the opposite was true. Stiles had never been a highly sexual person, but with Derek, sex became a regular extension of their incessant physicality with one another. It happened very often, as a natural part of what they were doing to each other.

“I got you something,“ Derek said, reaching towards the bedside table. Stiles seized the opportunity and buried his nose into Derek's armpit. “Yeah?“, he murmured against the soft hairs there. He was only mildly interested. He didn't need anything.

It was a necklace. It clinked when Derek held it above Stiles' head for him to see. “It's the moon, and a tree, and a heart. I chose the chain first, and then I could choose the pendants. I chose these.“

Stiles lifted himself up on his elbows, looking at Derek. “Put it on me.“

The metal felt a little cold against his skin, and Derek knew it, so he put the palm of his hand over the pendants to warm them up.

“You are the nicest person I have ever met,“ Stiles said then, and when he saw Derek's stunned expression, he rushed to add, “Don't say anything. You are. You are. Just kiss me now.“

They kissed for a long time, languidly, stroking each other everywhere, half-hard and then hard, but they had the entire night before them, and tomorrow night, too, and the next night, and the next, and in that endless time frame, chasing orgasms became less frantic. Stiles coming in his briefs was a regular occurrence, almost like they forgot to fuck during their snuggling. It sometimes took only an accidental brush or two against Derek's thigh or crotch, since he was in a constant pre-orgasmic state around him; but definitely not as regular as him coming on Derek's dick. Stiles had had more sex with Derek in those few months than with all his previous partners combined in the past few years.

“I want to do to you what spring does to cherry trees.“

Stiles' eyes filled with tears. “These are happy tears, just so you know.“

Derek smiled, and remained true to his words, filling Stiles up with blossoms where he was still open and wet, both hypnotized by a strange delight, sweet and heady. 

*******

This was definitely the craziest thing that Stiles had ever done, or was about to do; but the decision had been reached, plans made, cash all lined up. It was a multiple leveled idiocy. Not that Stiles hadn't planned to build his own house in the near future, because he had, and not that he didn't need a house, because he did, but this was so far from that original plan that they weren't even sharing the same space continuum.

And he couldn't even live there, could he now? Because Derek would then know, and Stiles definitely didn't want that. He didn't want him to know.

He called Erica and told her that the house was sold.

“Good, good,“ and her voice sounded like she thought the exact opposite from that. “How are you feeling?“

“Empty. Stupid. Disappointed. Miserable. Mad. Sad. All that.“

“Shit,“ she sniveled a little. “What the fuck happened, Stiles? Everything was so good. So good. And I don't even know where he is right now.“

“Don't ask me that. I don't know. We were happy, and then he wasn't. And I didn't even notice.“

“I'm going to kick his ass when he gets back, I promise,“ Erica said and blew her nose loudly.

Stiles smiled. “You do that.“ It was only after their conversation had ended that Stiles remembered that she didn't even ask him who had bought it.

After work, he went there. He went, even though he still felt a little guilty for doing what he did in the first place, for taking something that didn't belong to him. He sneaked in like a thief. And after everything, he felt sorry for the house itself. He had to laugh at that, but it _was_ true – this place deserved a better owner than himself. What was he? A scorned lover? A reject? A lost soul who would roam the house at night and remember all the good times that he once had there, alone and miserable?

Fuck.

He went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. It was empty, save for a few water bottles, cleared of all the food that Derek and he used to share. Derek had been mostly the one who cooked because of Stiles' long hours, but sometimes Stiles would surprise him with a fancy meal, and Derek loved it.

Stiles frowned in confusion. Had Derek really loved it or had it all been a figment of Stiles' imagination? He really tried not to go on a downward spiral of questioning himself, of analyzing their relationship like it was a sickness, searching for cracks and fallacies. He didn't want to diagnose their failure. He was so tired and sleepy. Should he sleep here? Could he? The trees were whispering outside, but they weren't giving him any answers.

*******

The roof contractors came, and Stiles felt a hundred percent ready and focused on the job. So, when he came back inside to fetch his plan and Derek cornered him in the hallway, Stiles was more than a little confused.

“What?“

“What do you mean what? You kissed me yesterday, now I want to kiss you back. Can I?“

“Oh, my god. You are so weird. Derek, the contractors are here. Can we discuss this later? I'm not in the mood right now.“

“Okay. But tell me now, can we kiss later?“

Derek's breath smelled great. He looked great this close. His body felt _great_ against Stiles'.

“Shit. Come here,“ Stiles said and pulled him into a brief kiss. But Derek meant business, because his tongue ended up in Stiles' mouth immediately, and Stiles' knees buckled at the contact. He was surprised when he felt Derek's hands embracing his face.

“We'll talk later,“ Derek said and pecked him once more for good measure.

But they never did get to talk later. The contractors left really late, and Derek and Stiles ended up showering together afterwards, then fucking, then showering again. Then they slept together in Derek's bed, fucked again in the morning, and never really stopped ever since.

Well, not until Derek left, that was.

It was their first morning after when Stiles realized what a poet Derek was, both with his words and his body. He would caress Stiles, or just hold him every time they shared a bed, or sat next to each other, always touching, always gentle, saying things that would bring tears to Stiles' eyes. Even his fucking was poetic, the movement of his hips in rhythm like iambic pentameter, stressed and unstressed thrusts alternating regularly.

He would take Stiles to the lake and kiss him there. “The still waters of the water under a frond of stars. The still waters of your mouth under a thicket of kisses.“

“Is that a quote from a book?“

“A movie.“

“Will you tell me which one?“

“No. But you can try to guess.“

“I don't know why your friends say you can't talk. You're a poet.“

“Only for you. I'm a poet of love.“

“Yeah? Come here, Mr. Byron, I want to suck your dick under the stars.“

They talked some more afterwards, and Stiles couldn't stop thinking about Derek's pink penis, about the shape of it, how soft the skin was over the hard muscle, how he licked it, how it felt great in his mouth and how Stiles almost came in his pants when Derek came inside of him. He was a bit remorseful, because Derek talked about his childhood during Stiles' phallic daydreaming, but nothing too serious – he spoke about their family picnics and trips to the sea.

They hadn't spent too much time together at that point for Stiles to stop being surprised by Derek's loquaciousness. He felt like he had been privy to Beacon Hill's top secret – or was it Stiles' presence that charged Derek into using his speech apparatus more than usual. Derek's seldom words were more noticeable before, due to their sheer seldomness, and it suddenly struck Stiles that he should have noticed Derek's silences more, due to their freshly established rareness.

Earlier, it had taken him by surprise when he realized how not 'mute' Derek really was when they were together, talkative both in bed and outside it; so it was no wonder that Stiles failed to notice the silent moments that had crept in between them. Stiles didn't know if it was because of the couple who came to see the house, and the husband's refusal to say anything untoward to his wife, keeping his mouth shut – his silences weren't simple ignoring of her, Stiles understood that now; they were the Alexandrian solution to the Gordian knot of their marriage.

A chill went down Stiles' spine. When had Derek been quiet? Suddenly, he remembered every single situation, clear as day, as if they were written on a monitor before him, to read from it like a news presenter from a teleprompter. _I could make chili for dinner tonight, Derek_. Silence. _Do you want us to go to the movies?_ Silence. _I can sleep over again. We could go on a date. You could meet my father. You could call your friends over. What really happened to your family? What are your plans? How should I call you?_ Silence, silence, silence, after each and every one of those Stiles' sentences. Not because Derek wanted to ignore him, or because he didn't know what to say, but because Stiles wouldn't like what Derek had to say. _He wouldn't like what Derek had to say_.

Fuck. And the ultimate one of them all. _I could really live here._ Stupid! _I could really live here._

The next day, Derek was gone. He came. He left. Nothing else had changed. Stiles had not changed. The world hadn't changed. Yet nothing would be the same. All that remained was dreammaking and strange remembrance.

*******

“Mr. Stilinski, this is Marin Morel, Mr. Hale's lawyer. As I understand, you bought the house and paid for it fully, on the proviso that your identity should remain undisclosed to my client. Is that correct?“

“Correct.“

“Excellent. That's convenient, because Mr. Hale insisted to not be told about the buyer. He doesn't want to know. Furthermore, I am to remind you of our stipulation that you're not allowed to change the house or its environment.“

 _Like I would_.

“Excuse me?“

“I said I know. I won't.“

“Good. Well then, goodbye, Mr. Stilinski.“

“Can I ask you something?“

“Of course.“

“Is there any chance of Mr. Hale returning to Beacon Hills, or perhaps deciding to visit the house? I really wouldn't want him finding me there. I'm even reluctant to move there because of it.“

“Well, I can't guarantee you anything, Mr. Stilinski. However, I will say that I find such a possibility highly unlikely. I don't see why you wouldn't live in the house that you paid for. And made, for that matter.“

“Thank you, Ms. Morel.“

“You're welcome.“

*******

Stiles dreamed in the house. He dreamed about Derek, about the things that happened between them, the conversations, the sex, the intimacy, and about the future fantasies he dared to have, the ones where they were still together; the next day, he would remember his dreams and feel mostly happy about them. If he could have him like that in his dreams every night of his life, he'd stake his entire life on dreams and be done with the rest.

He stopped expecting a phone call; he stopped hoping that Derek would appear in his office, repentant and asking Stiles to take him back. Most of all, he stopped waiting to hear his doorbell and seeing Derek on his – _their_ —doorstep. He still thought of the house as theirs. Before, it had been only Derek’s, even though Stiles had spent more time there than in his own apartment, but Derek never really asked Stiles to move in with him. Now, although Stiles had bought it, he couldn’t, and wouldn’t, think of it as just his. This house would never _not_ be Derek’s.

And that was when it happened. The doorbell rang. Stiles was hanging his shirts upstairs, so he had to rush down. He didn’t even wonder who it was. It could be the postman. Or his father, dropping by to have breakfast together before his shift. Or delivery service. Or Jehovah’s witnesses.

But no, it was Derek, there, on his doorstep.

“Aren’t you going to let me in?”, Derek asked after a full minute passed.

Stiles unfroze, and moved to the side. They went into the kitchen, sat at the table.

“Who told you?“

“Erica.“

“Why did you come here?“

Derek seemed to hesitate then, mulling the reply in his head. “Because you bought the house.“

Excellent, Stiles thought bitterly. Not because he missed him, or because he loved him, or couldn't live without him. If he was being completely honest, Stiles felt a little sorry for himself at this point.

“Are you mad?“, he asked Derek.

“Because you bought it? Why would I be mad? I cried with happiness when I heard.“

Stiles frowned. _He cried with happiness when he heard_. Was Derek fucking with him? He was the one who left, he was the one who wanted to sell the house in the first place.

“Well, I'm mad.“

Derek stood up, and went to the window. “Good. You should be.“

“What do you want from me, Derek?“

“I want to apologize. Say how sorry I am. Offer an explanation, if you want it. Tell you that I love you, which I never told you before, before it's too late. Before one of us dies.“

“Oh, my god, you morbid fucker! Why would any of us die?“

“You know, theoretically speaking.“

Stiles wasn't that angry anymore. It was so hard for him seeing Derek there, listening to him talk, hearing his words, and yet feeling this insurmountable gap between them that no words could erase. He felt so close, and yet so far away.

“I've never been sadder than right now. You don't have to say anything, I think I know why you left. Whatever it was, it doesn't matter now. We're not together, and that's just... sad.“

Derek came to him then, and knelt next to Stiles' chair, his eyes glassy and pleading. “Don't you get it, Stiles? _You bought the house_. Nothing that you would say or do could convince more me that you wouldn't disappear like a ghost and leave me alone in this perfect house that you made for me, and then made it a home for me. Don't cry, please.“

But Stiles couldn't stop sniveling. “Why would I leave you, I was never going to leave you.“

“I'm sorry, baby. I'm so sorry. I'm a coward, an idiot, a pitiful fool. Will you marry me?“

“What?“

“Let's go upstairs. Hold onto me.“ Derek carried him upstairs, on the bed, and started wiping his face. “You're all wet.“ He placed his hand over Stiles' necklace. “You're still wearing it.“

“I feel so bad for myself right now. For all your big words and declarations, and the fucking marriage proposal downstairs, it was you who left me, you left, you left, and I don't know how to stop being bitter about it, and resenting you for it.“

Derek took off his shirt, and then Stiles', and kissed his chest. “Then don't stop. Resent me. I deserve it all, and I'll never object. Just don't stop loving me. Do you? Love me?“

“You know I do. I love you.“

They kissed then, and Derek climbed on top of him, perfect as ever; but Stiles didn't want to get hard, he just wanted to be held.

“I wasn't joking downstairs, it would mean so much to me if we got married.“

“I don't know, Derek. An hour ago, I thought I was never going to see you again. And now you talk about marriage. Ask me again some other time, if you don't disappear again.“

“I won't, ever again. I came today to tell you that, even if you wanted nothing to do with me, if you wanted to chase me away. You are the only person I'd like to say goodbye to when I die, because only then will this thing I call my life make any sense. I can't bear losing you. The thought is so unbearable to me that I disappeared just to prevent that from happening.”

“I mean, when you put it like that, I have no choice really, do I?“ Stiles finally smiled. He brushed his hands over Derek's hair and pulled a little at the short, curly hairs at the bottom of his hairline, finally settling on his neck.

"You do have a choice, you have every choice in the world. I am going to be the one who will bend around you, do anything you say, be anything you want. I truly thought that you didn't love me as much as I loved you. We didn't say anything, and... you know the rest. When I found out that you bought the house, it could only mean one thing... I was blown away. Whatever you want, Stiles, I promise. I swear."

Stiles hid his face in Derek's neck, where it was warm and wet and cocooned, and wished he would fall asleep right then, and forget about all the bad things. "Can we keep our promises?"

"I hope so. Yes, we can." 

Stiles' head fell back against the pillow. He was exhausted, unable to think, and still so very scared. "Derek, if something bad happens again... I don't think I can survive it."

It was Derek who started crying then, and since he was braced above Stiles, his hot tears fell onto Stiles' face and hair. "I'm so sorry, baby. I hate myself, you know I do. It's hard for me to believe you could love me."

"Well," Stiles said, wiping Derek's tears away, from both their faces. "Theoretically speaking, we do have a house together. And we could get married. And tie even more knots between us. Until death do us part?"

Derek smiled. "Until death do us part."

Neither of them was aware when sleep took them over, exhausted and wrecked, but the sheets on their bed were so soft, and the canopy above them so soothing that they couldn't fight it any longer. They couldn't fight the sleep, or each other anymore, and the house wouldn't let them, safe and calming around them, bringing them together like a beacon light.     

 

THE END


End file.
